


The Midnight Train

by Godspeed_Cowboy



Series: Dream Land [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Horror, I literally dreamt this bullshit last night and I thought y'all would like it, Nightmare, Nightmares, Other, POV Senju Tobirama, Senju Tobirama Has Issues, Senju Tobirama-centric, Supernatural Elements, Teeth, Trains, Weird Horror, Weirdness, and they don't understand what qualifies as a good or bad prank, crashes, dont drink from the cups offered by strangers, dream - Freeform, dreamscape, heavily implied that the uchiha aren't human, like characters and everthing, mystery liquids, pranks gone wrong, there's like some weird madatobi undertones, unknown entities, weird dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26482423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godspeed_Cowboy/pseuds/Godspeed_Cowboy
Summary: Tobirama takes a train ride to a place he doesn't know, and it goes a little haywire.
Relationships: I think - Relationship, None
Series: Dream Land [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906648
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	The Midnight Train

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all I literally dreamt this last night and thought I should share it. Like. I was looking through Tobirama's eyes and experiencing his sensations but I was also looking at him in third person, like a split screen. It was wild and weird and I think you guys would like it. Enjoy.
> 
> Twitter: @YeehawMitski

Tobirama opens his eyes and he’s somewhere new, somewhere unrecognizable.

He’s in a seat, maroon leather creaking as he shifts his weight, and it’s a booth, he realizes. A booth seat. Shades of red and oak wood. The walls around him are patterned in deep red and gold designs, intricate, expensive. In front of him, a table the same as the rest of the oak, and a white lace table cover, the corners turned to touch the edges, like a diamond in a square. On the table, dining ware set askew, a fork there, a knife here, a cup knocked off its saucer. It rattles against the table lightly and he realizes that the place he’s in is moving. He turns his head, a window to his left.

The landscape beyond is barren, dry, brown and empty, and the sun is setting. And it is moving by quickly. There’s the distinct sound of metal on metal, wheels against tracks. 

And Tobirama is hit with the thought of “train”.

He’s in a train car. He’s on a train.

And he doesn’t know _why_ and he doesn’t know _where_ he’s going. 

And something cold settles into the pit of his stomach, a twisted fear of something he cannot see. But he does not move from his seat, for if he does, he knows that this will end, and he will not see what has brought him here, he will not reach the end of the journey and claim the fruits of it’s labor. 

Tobirama wants to know what has called him forth from the land beyond this one.

The words of these thoughts shake him to the very bone. Is this place _really_ beyond his world? What has brought him to this place, outside of the mortal coil that is his life? Why must he partake in this journey? Where will it lead him? What must he collect from it? What is instilling these thoughts within his head? What does this world know or have that he does not?

He turns his head away from the window, to look at the aisle of the car. The rug is a brighter red, and again there is gold, this time close to the edges, two stripes that leave inches of red as the sides. It looks clean, untouched. There are other booths lining the walls, identical to his. But their seats are empty and there is no dining ware to cover their tables. He leans forward to look down the aisle.

He turns his head left and right, and he sees no end to the car, the booths and rug going on for what seems like infinity. He swallows and leans back. 

It felt like something was looking back. He tries not to dwell on it, and instead focuses on the rumbling car. The items on his table keep rattling, steady, with the movement of the train. The train makes a sound, it’s whistle blowing low and loud, foreboding.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, maybe hours, maybe minutes, seconds. He doesn’t know how long, but it feels like both an eternity that moves backwards and a countdown in reverse and the sun is almost gone, almost completely under the horizon, stealing away the last dredges of light.

But eventually, _something_ happens. 

There’s a loud clatter, a crash, a booming sound. The lights overhead flicker in waves, and one by one they go out, starting in front of him.

The darkness it carries is _haunting_ , and there is a sudden chill that works its way up his spine. 

And then the ends of the car, ones that weren’t there before, rush towards him so fast that the air pushes him against his seat and tries to push him out at the same time. He panics, lifting his arms to cover his face as there’s the distinct groan of metal being crushed, being bent. There is a debri, and it feels like it passes right through his body. The smell of smoke and fresh air fill his nostrils simultaneously and there’s a rush of wind to his left, and he knows that the wall is gone, broken, ripped off. 

Then it stops all at once, and there is silence. Just silence and his breathing. It is not awkward or heavy, it is not comfortable or familiar, it is just silence, and he fills as much of it as he can with every pant. A bead of sweat gets in one of his eyes, and there’s a lot running down his neck. He’s shaking, shaking hard, and his knees bump together with it. 

Why is he _afraid_?

Carefully, he sets his arms down.

His seat is the only one left undamaged, sandwiched between rubble and destruction, and smoke is steadily floating out. As predicted, the wall to his left is ripped away. It exposes him to the air of the night, the sky a deep blue and speckled with stars and constellations he doesn’t remember. If there is a moon, he can’t see it. He looks out at the landscape, sand and the occasional rock.

Against his better judgement, Tobirama steps out of the train car. 

Suddenly, houses flicker to life in front of him, two long rows, and people wandering around them. He startles.

The houses are dull, bleak, brown and grey. They’re built with planks for walls and boards for roofs and doors, shaped like gingerbread houses. They all have small windows, limited to two or three, and the glass looks dusty, dirty, and there’s yellow lights coming from inside. The hands of their doors are small, metal, and they’re shaped like the ones on freezers, the only difference being that they had fancy little details and were rusted. He has no doubt that if he put his hands on one, his fingers and palms would be left stained.

Around the two rows of houses, a large fence, a wall, made of the same wood, shielding them from the strange desert. 

Then he looks at the people. And gasps.

The uchiwa on their backs and their high collars are the biggest giveaway.

_Uchiha_. He bristles.

And then one is _right in front of him_ out of _nowhere_. He nearly jumps out of his skin.

Long, wild, dark hair, dark eyes, and classical Uchiha features, he recognizes the man before him as Uchiha Madara, leader of the Uchiha, his Anija’s best friend, and older brother to his rival in war. 

But, somehow, he looks _wrong_.

His skin is too pale, sickly pale. He’s a little too tall, a little too thin, and he looks disproportionate almost. His hair looks wiry, greasy, and he swears that if he looks close enough, it’s floating, moving on it’s own. His face looks hollow, stretched, and his neck looks longer, and he can make out dents in it, columns. His eyes, too wide, too big, the pupils too dilated, and it’s like they’re looking right through Tobirama’s very _soul_ , shifting through the faults and the cracks and the mess of it. 

And yet at the same time, he looks normal.

Tobirama shivers, and looks at the others.

The rest of the Uchiha are the same way, looking wrong in unnatural ways, yet still as Uchiha as ever.

He does not like that. Madara speaks up.

“Hello, Tobirama. What brings you here?”

Tobirama doesn’t like the way he looks at him nor does he like the way the older man tilts his head, and he _especially_ doesn’t like how he calls him by his first name, and he scratches one of his arms. But he decides to answer truthfully.

“. . . I do not know.”

Madara hums, looking him up and down. 

“. . . Are you _sure_?”

It’s like there’s a strange echo to his voice, and his inquiry is accusing in it’s tone. It makes Tobirama’s heart drop.

“ _Yes_ , I am _sure_ ,” he says, his teeth clenched.

Madara hums again, “Very well, then. You look tired, Tobirama. Perhaps I can offer you a place to sleep?”

Tobirama, against his better judgement once again, accepts the offer with a nod, and he hates himself for agreeing because it feels like he’s signed himself away on some deal he doesn’t know the details of.

Madara turns around, expecting him to follow, and when he walks, it’s more like gliding, his feet hidden behind his long, dark robes, which flutter behind him.

Tobirama swallows down his pulse and he walks after him, slower.

A few minutes go by, and they’re still walking, silent. Tobirama wonders where he’s being led.

He’s close to one of the houses, the row to the left, and the door swings open, stopping him in his tracks. He does jump this time, if only a little. Madara stops, turns to him.

Three unnatural Uchiha stare at him dumbstruck for all but a second before they smile at him, devilish. He does not like that. The one in front speaks.

“You look _exhausted_ , Tobirama,” he says, and Tobirama _hates_ that they keep using his first name, “can we offer you a drink?”

“. . . A drink? What kind?”

“Wanna find out?”

With a statement like that, yes, yes he does, and he hates it.

“. . . Sure. Thank you.”

The one to the left disappears back into the little house. The one on the right leans forward over the front’s shoulder.

“No problem, _Tobirama_ ,” he purrs, his smile curling further and further up, the sides of his mouth getting longer, and Tobirama looks away, disturbed.

The right comes back with a teacup on a little platter, white and cracked and repaired with something yellow and black. When he holds the cup out, Tobirama takes it, and the door swings shut. Behind it, they laugh. Madara comes to stand beside him, and _wow_ Tobirama does not like him being close enough to where he can feel the other near and looking over his shoulder and feel his breath on his skin. Madara doesn’t radiate heat, he radiates something _cold_. And his breath smells . . . Like something sweet? No, it’s something that’s definitely rotting, but sweet? Why? Eugh.

Both look down at the cup to see what’s inside

Inside, something brown like mud and thick like glue. A bubble pops from it, splattering a bit on the black shirt he wears. Tobirama makes a face. It smells rancid. Madara smiles, small.

“How generous of them,” he says, “they must like you.”

Tobirama lifts his brow, “Oh? Really?”

“Yes. We don’t just give this drink out willy nilly. Now come along, you can drink it while we walk.”

And so the older man is off again, gliding over the ground. Tobirama takes one last look at his “drink” before sprinting after him to catch up. 

A few more minutes pass, and now people are looking at him and snickering, and he _really_ wants to know when they’re going to reach their destination.

“You might want to hurry up and drink it before it gets too cold,” Madara shoots him a look over his shoulder, “wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

Looks like he couldn’t get out of this even if he wanted to. He grimaces, looking down at the sludge. Now or never, he supposes. Though he does certainly wish it was never.

He lifts the cup up to his lips, rim pressing to the crack, and it smells even worse up close. On the count of three, he opens his mouth and tips the cup forward, and the unknown substance oozes into his mouth, slow like syrup. He tilts the cup further, tilts his head back, because he wants this to be over as soon as possible. 

It touches his tongue and he wants to _vomit_ at the taste. It tastes like _shit_ , _literal_ shit. He powers through, because he doesn’t know what Madara or the others will do. It takes him three tries to swallow down just a bit, and then he stops. Something _hard_ touched his tongue, _multiple_ little somethings. He drops the cup and the plate, the dishes clattering to the ground as he hunches forward, a hand covering his face, the disgusting substance dripping out of his open mouth. He coughs and there’s tears in his eyes.

“AUGH!”

Madara pauses and turns around.

He lifts a hand, points at something behind him, “The bathroom is behind you if you need it.”

Tobirama whips around, and sure enough, it’s a bathroom missing a wall. Small, green wood walls, a dirty white toilet, and a small sink with a mirror above it. It’s strange, considering it wasn’t there before, but he takes to it anyways. 

He runs in, stumbling, gripping the sink. Whatever was in the cup is dripping down his chin, and he keeps his mouth open. On the sink, a small pair of tongs, purple at the ends.

And they’re small enough to fit in his mouth.

He grabs them, because he doesn’t want to stick his fingers in . . . Whatever _this_ is, not anymore than he has.

It takes a minute too long, his jaw hurting from being held open this wide, but the tongs grab one of the things in there. He pulls it out. And he promptly drops it into the sink, horrified. 

Next to the tongs, a yellow, cracked _tooth_ , a _molar_. He moves his tongue in his mouth, and sure enough, he feels the distinct texture of _teeth_. Teeth that aren’t _his_.

He sticks his hands into his mouth, frantic, because the tongs took too long, and he pulls them out, and he pulls out a good few teeth, enough to make a little pile in the sink’s bowl. Molars, canines, incisors, all of that.

He leans on his hands, braced by the sink, as he gasps, sweats, coughs, spit falling from his open mouth as he reels from the experience. Madara comes to step up beside him, his brows furrowed.

He has the gall to look _concerned_.

“What’s wrong?” asks Madara.

“”What’s wrong”? What the hell do you mean “what’s wrong”?” he hisses, “I just spat out teeth that don’t belong to me! From your-your weird drink!”

Madara’s brows go to his hairline, “That?” 

“Yes! That!”

Madara waves a hand, looking unconcerned, “Oh, calm down, it was only a prank.”

Tobirama is panting, shaking, and his eyes are wild, and he doesn’t know why he’d gotten so angry so fast. if anything he should be disgusted. But somehow, every word out of that man’s mouth makes him want to punch him to get him to shut up.

“Prank? A _PRANK_!?” he yells.

A _fucking_ prank?

Madara rolls his eyes, “Yes, a _prank_ , it’s _fine_. Are you done?”

Tobirama does not answer.

“Ok then. Let’s continue, shall we?”

Madara turns around, starts to walk away. Tobirama is not having it.

“. . . No.”

Madara pauses in his steps, “. . . What?”

“I said _no_.”

Madara turns around. He looks a little mad.

“ _What_?” 

“Are you deaf? I said. No. N to the O. No.”

Silence as they glare at each other, Tobirama slightly shaking from the “prank” still and Madara simply glaring. The Uchiha lets out a slow breath.

“Alright, alright. This is fine. You’re not ready yet. It’s fine”

Tobirama is then confused, “Ready? Ready for what?”

“You’ll find out when you’re ready.”

“What-!?”

Madara is suddenly in front of him, and he is looming over him, a hand with long, cold fingers wrapping around his throat. His smile is sinister, and his eyes become half lidded with a simple look of ease. His eyes, his eyes that have become black, and his face, his face something inhuman.

And Tobirama becomes _scared_.

“You’ll find out,” he gets closer, and his breath ghosts over Tobirama’s face again, closer to his lips, and it makes everything within him freeze and shrivel up and _die_ , “when you’re _ready_.”

Tobirama shoots up from where he's lying down with a gasp, grasping at his throat for hands that aren’t there, eyes looking for a place that doesn’t exist.

He is alone, in his bedroom, in the dark, and his heart beat is loud and thunderous, even as it slows. 

Ticking, the sound of ticking to his right, and he turns his head. There’s a clock on the wall, and it’s hands read midnight.

Slowly, he lets go of his throat, taking in deep breaths as he dwells on his dream.

What did it mean? Why was there a train, why were there Uchiha? Why was Madara a prominent figure in the dream?

_. . . What was waiting for him?_

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all enjoyed, my mind is an enigma of strange dreams that seem too realistic half the time.


End file.
